


Recovery

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Caretaking, Established Relationship, Fluff, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Luckily, Hiruma is close to the front door when the knock comes." Hiruma's is good at acting and bad at taking care of himself. Musashi knows about both traits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

Luckily, Hiruma is close to the front door when the knock comes.

He made it inside, which is more than he was sure he could, even got the door shut and locked behind him. Then he reached out to set his palm against the wall, just to take his weight for a moment, and when his legs started to shake it was either sit down or fall down, and even with no one to see sitting was a better decision than collapsing. He could have gotten to his feet after a few minutes, but the stairs to his bedroom are mocking him with the promise of pain, so he stays where he is, staring at the rising steps and waiting for enough time to pass that he can force himself up the incline.

He could probably open the door from where he’s sitting. But he doesn’t know who it is, and he needs to maintain at least the appearance of invulnerability since he hasn’t yet managed it in fact. So he braces his shoulders against the wall, pushes back and eases himself back to his feet, and by the time he’s settled his features into amused aggression it’s been a reasonable amount of time and he can pull the door open.

Musashi blinks at Hiruma as the barrier between them swings aside. He looks faintly bored, or maybe sleepy; only the soft fall of his hair speaks to his exhaustion, demonstrating that he didn’t take the effort to spike it up this morning. His expression is calm as always, his eyes dark and too insightful so Hiruma discards any attempt at fooling him before he’s even tried.

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, keeping his hold on the door handle more to steady his balance than because he wants to keep Musashi on the front step.

The other boy lifts the bag in his hand without speaking, offering the ice for the sinking sunlight so it catches into fractured light. Hiruma glances at the promised cold, the condensation sticking to the outside of the plastic, and steps out of the doorway even as he says, “You don’t have to play fucking nurse, you know.”

“I know.” Musashi comes forward, the ice sprinkling a trail of water droplets in his wake. Hiruma pushes the door shut behind him, doesn’t have to look to know Musashi is glancing at Hiruma’s bag just inside the entryway, the giveaway for those who know to look that he hasn’t made it up the stairs yet. “You won’t do it yourself.”

He sounds level, like what he’s saying is a simple fact instead of an offer, instead of a suggestion of affectionate care that is making Hiruma’s hands draw tight on the door handle before he can steady himself enough to turn around.

“Yeah,” he admits easily, surrendering the point. It’s not really losing, not when it results in Musashi’s footsteps in his house and the sound of the other boy’s breathing in the space.

Musashi doesn’t look at him. He’s eyeing the stairs, squinting like he can’t see them clearly while he idly scratches at the back of his head. “Did you go upstairs?”

Hiruma doesn’t answer. The bag is telltale enough, that and the way he’s starting to shake from the cramps he can feel tightening in his legs, drawing his knees untrustworthy and his spine shaky with the effort of keeping his balance. After a moment Musashi glances at him, blinks slow and considering.

“Just sit down,” he says, and Hiruma drops like the permission is an order, his legs folding so fast he flinches at the impact with the floor. He catches some of his weight on the door handle but it’s not enough to do more than slow his collapse. It’s more telling than he intended, more of a giveaway for his all-day facade than he wanted, but Musashi doesn’t say anything at all, just sets the ice down against the door and makes his way down the hallway towards the bathroom.

Hiruma doesn’t move, leans back against the wall and shuts his eyes so he can listen to Musashi opening cabinets around the corner. When the footsteps come back he opens an eye, watches the other boy approach with a handful of towels before he eases himself down to the floor, the care in the motion a tell for his own pain if less obvious than Hiruma’s near-collapse.

“You’re gonna get ice all over the floor,” Hiruma observes as Musashi tears the plastic open and reaches in to catch a handful of cubes in his fingers, dumps them into the towel laid out over the floor. That gets him a glance, shadowed by the fall of Musashi’s loose hair over his forehead, but the other boy doesn’t look irritated, sounds calm when he says, “You don’t care.”

That’s true. Hiruma lets it stand, watches Musashi’s fingers collect ice on the cloth until he bundles the towel up into a compress, knots the trailing ends into a loose twist over the melting cold.

“Do you want to keep your jeans on?” he asks without looking up.

Hiruma doesn’t look away from the steady movement of those fingers. “No. Give me a sec.”

It takes significantly longer than a second, even when he can get himself to start moving. It’s hard to wiggle free of the denim without getting to his feet, but Musashi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as look impatient; he just holds the compress while the ice melts the fabric into damp chill, doesn’t come closer until Hiruma has gotten his jeans free and tossed them aside. With just his boxers around his hips Hiruma can see his legs shaking, can’t stop the faint vibrations of cramping pain even when he makes a fist and presses in against his thigh in an attempt he know will be futile before he starts.

“It’s fine,” Musashi says, his level tone more soothing than deliberate comfort would be. He shifts his weight, comes in close enough that his hip is bumping Hiruma’s knee, before he pushes the blond’s hand aside so he can settle the cold towel against the other boy’s legs. There is a brief burst of reaction, not pain as much as shock at the temperature shift, and Hiruma’s head snaps back against the wall as he exhales hard at the chill. The first shock fades almost instantly into relief; the daylong constant pain dulls into a chill numbness, the threat of a cramp recedes, and the next breath Hiruma takes comes easier, sighs out as an almost-sob at the loss of the agony.

Musashi is reaching back, flicking another towel open and scooping ice into that one, too. Hiruma doesn’t offer even token protest this time; he curls his fingers in over the first compress, presses it in harder against his leg while Musashi ties off the second and picks it up by the knot so he can set that one in place too. This time Hiruma has to bring a hand up over his face, cover his eyes with his fingers to hide the prickle of relieved tears that start to burn at the corners of his eyes. That leaves his mouth uncovered, the gasp in his throat and the shaky gratitude at his mouth clear to see, but Musashi doesn’t say anything. When Hiruma can trust his eyes to blink back the tears and lets his hand drop, Musashi is watching him, his gaze still and steady and lacking any judgment at all.

Hiruma’s missed that expression. It’s as much a comfort as the cold seeping into his aching muscles, as much a comfort as Musashi’s very presence here, in this house, in this space with him.

It’s Musashi who finally clears his throat, speaks without breaking eye contact. His hair is falling heavy over his face, nearly obscuring one of his eyes entirely. Hiruma wants to touch it. “You’re not alone.” There’s an  _anymore_  at the end of that, the word hovering but not quite said. Hiruma’s grateful to that. He’s not sure his repressed tears would withstand actually hearing it aloud.

“You don’t have to be strong by yourself,” Musashi goes on, still without looking away. He’s hunched forward, his shoulders sloped like he’s still carrying the impossible burden of his father’s business, like he’s forgotten that he can stand up straight now. His habit is written into his spine, Hiruma’s into his forced composure, but they both show evidence of that year and a half apart even though Hiruma would overwrite it if he could.

“We have to win,” he says instead of the thousand other things he could say, the things that would make this explicitly about them instead of letting the implication hover in the subtext on their words.

Musashi looks away for a moment. It’s not self-consciousness; it’s consideration, like he’s dragging thoughts out of the shadows at Hiruma’s shoulder. There is a long pause, where Hiruma feels his words gather weight he didn’t intend but doesn’t regret. Then Musashi nods, like he’s coming to a conclusion, and looks back to meet Hiruma’s gaze.

“It’s only me here now.”

There’s layers of meaning in that -- Hiruma’s mind catches on the words, starts peeling them apart immediately, into the self-deprecation of that ‘only’ and down to the suggestion that Hiruma can let his guard down, the weight of ‘now’ when the past is so shadowed and numb even in memory. But there’s another layer too, because it’s not just Musashi, it’s the two of them together with no one else. Hiruma’s thoughts open up that last meaning, pull it back like he’s unwrapping a present, and he sighs in shaky relief, and tips his head back against the wall so Musashi can lean in and kiss him.

Hiruma doesn’t close his eyes as the other boy leans in over the distance. He can see Musashi’s gaze drop to his mouth, can watch the other’s eyelashes shift as he shuts his eyes just in advance of the oddly light brush of his lips against Hiruma’s. When Hiruma blinks his eyes come into focus on Musashi’s hair, the same dark locks that caught his attention before; this time he lifts his hand to brush them sideways over Musashi’s forehead. It’s as soft as he expected, maybe softer, and the touch makes Musashi lean in closer, push with more intention even before Hiruma tilts his head sideways and opens his mouth so he can slide his tongue against the other boy’s lips. Musashi reaches out to curl his fingers in around Hiruma’s shoulder, Hiruma’s hand draws down Musashi’s jawline to touch his pulse point, and when the other boy parts his lips in echo Hiruma finally shuts his eyes and lets the feedback of sensation drown out the calculations in his brain.

The support at his shoulder is surprisingly gentle, in spite of the weight of Musashi’s fingers against it. Hiruma can feel the strength there, the whisper of ability that isn’t being used but doesn’t exist any less for its current passivity. Musashi’s hip is still pressed in against his knee, the force drifting towards deliberate from casual as the other boy leans in closer, shifts his balance until the hand at Hiruma’s shoulder is more a press than contact alone. Hiruma’s hands are moving far more, as if to make up for the static warmth of Musashi’s hand against him; one hand is dragging through the stripe of longer hair across Musashi’s scalp, pushing it back so it can fall forward as soon as it is released from Hiruma’s demanding fingers, and Musashi’s shirt is loose enough that Hiruma doesn’t even have to try to hike the fabric up at his waist, to let his fingers climb up over the shifting heat of the other’s skin.

Musashi leans back as soon as Hiruma’s fingertips touch him, though he doesn’t go far enough that he couldn’t be pulled back if necessary. “We shouldn’t,” he points out, like Hiruma’s touch has more implications than just skin contact.

The fact that it  _does_ , that Hiruma’s blood is pounding hot in his veins and his hands are starting to shake with adrenaline, has nothing to do with it. “Shouldn’t  _what_?” he snaps, more angry with the truth of the statement than with Musashi himself. “I’m just touching you, you got a problem with that?”

Musashi’s smile is startling, so bright and so genuine for a moment he looks his age, as if Hiruma has surprised youth out of his stoicism.

“Nah,” he says. There’s a tug at Hiruma’s shirt, the brush of callused fingertips against the bottom of his ribcage so he startles and hisses with reflexive reaction. “I’ll make sure you recover soon.”

His voice drops lower than usual on the last word, shivering it with promise Hiruma doesn’t have to think about at all before it catches his breath tight and pleased in his throat.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his grin pulling so wide he can’t manage a kiss for a moment. It’s sharper than he intends -- he can’t remember how to suggest without an edge, isn’t sure he ever knew how -- but Musashi is looking at his mouth again, and the other boy’s eyes are going soft and warm anyway. “I’m gonna do a lot more than just touch you.”

Musashi laughs, looks back up to meet his eyes. “Touching’s most of it for me,” he admits, leaning in to skim his lips over Hiruma’s jaw since the blond can’t stop grinning.

Hiruma considers for a moment, lets suggestions and seductions spread out through his thoughts. “Yeah,” he agrees, pushing his fingers up a little higher so Musashi shivers at the ticklish friction and smiles against his skin. “Soon, right?” He’s always been good at thinking ahead. Besides, right now Musashi’s hands are heavy on his skin, and Musahi’s lips are working down his neck to his shoulder, and the pain in his legs is numb if not gone as yet.

Sometimes Hiruma can see the future. This time, it makes him smile.


End file.
